


Such Attentions

by inkanddusk



Category: Frankenstein - Mary Shelley
Genre: (also note that victor and elizabeth are Siblings Only in this! solidarity.), (kind of!?), Angst, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Flashbacks, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Ice Cream, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, at some stage, henry clerval being lovely, it is decided, of course, they Will be happy...soon, victor frankenstein not knowing self-care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:54:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27840316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkanddusk/pseuds/inkanddusk
Summary: “But I was in reality very ill, and surely nothing but the unbounded and unremitting attentions of my friend could have restored me to life.”~Victor’s affliction, through Henry’s eyes.
Relationships: Henry Clerval & Victor Frankenstein, Henry Clerval/Victor Frankenstein
Comments: 10
Kudos: 23





	1. Enfold

**Author's Note:**

> \- This is the first fic I have published... bear in mind I am very amateurish when it comes to writing! This is all for Fun though :) 
> 
> \- Although this takes dialogue and language from Chapter Five’s events it also!! Changes some stuff up!! Got to have more conversation and the like

It was on a dreary night of November that I embarked upon the final phase of my journey: perhaps the most tiresome of all, as it appeared to spread, sluggish as the autumn mud churned from frequent storms.

Having grown weary of the coach and its shuddering progression, I had taken to dozing in the preceding hours, lulled by the rhythmic tattoo of raindrops against the windowpane. Now, I sat quite upright, entertaining the whims of my left knee as it bounced with restored energy that seemed to prickle each nerve with a spark of life. More than once, I paused to untangle fingers that occupied the ruffled braid I wore in travel— as they teased the curls in a habit I had formed from my childhood.

Our childhood. As if threading pearls, the next pondering thought of my dearest companion strung into sequence, gentle, precious, prized. His own hands remained cold in the closest of weather that Geneva gifted: as we sprawled beneath the welcome shade of the orchard so dear to me, whiling away hours of light reading and reciting poetry. Even the occasional plaiting of his own tousled hair, fawn and fine, if he were utterly consumed in a scientific tome as to not fidget and displace my handiwork. 

One particularly warm summer of our teenaged years saw my shirtsleeves raked beyond the elbow. Victor had laughed lightly at the sight. “You tell me of your lofty ambitions to travel, Henry— are you not concerned that less temperate climes will simply melt your fine sensations?”

“Of course,” I caught hold of his hand, comfortably cool as always, “I forget. We are not all blessed with such composure, doctor.”

I teased back with the address: though only mildly in jest. I held no doubt Victor would boast such an accolade as soon as age permitted his leave to the grandest establishments of study. Back then, I wrapped the thought of his departure within layers of literature, and locked them behind linked arms. Unreachable, until slowly unfolded, in a time and place that felt so in distant our youthful splendour.

An ungainly jolt of the coach sent me back to my more drab occupation as a passenger. The ghost of the very words I had then recalled now danced beyond my lips in a breath of fancy. Another, distinctly more troublesome habit of mine: echoing snatches of verses as and when the mood struck me.

I clenched my teeth for a moment, as if to imprison further syllables in their bid for freedom, and washed them away with a draught of water from a quickly depleting flask. The notion of a cup of sweet tea sounded increasingly comforting— the drinking companion infinitely moreso.

My focus thus swam in a steady infusion of said comforts. How I would shed my creased overcoat for a softer garment pertaining to leisure. A nightdress, later on, once the timid sun had reigned? It would be presumptuous, of course, to assume such restful attire unannounced in Victor’s apartment. Yet, I felt with a tender certainty that he would welcome me to spend the following night, with a flourish of his graceful arms.

How I longed for his arms! His embrace was a rare, glittering gesture: as he, being of a reserved temperament, shied away from the more exuberant acts of affection. Quite my foil, as I was admittedly drawn to threading his fingers with mine instinctively.

The way he had clasped me close before his departure, just seventeen, almost three long years ago, left the spectral sensation of his presence clenching my heart. It thrummed with measured hope upon every waning day, as I longed, lying in wait, the months etching ink lines of loneliness into my most personal journal of recollections.

It rested in my case upon the journey, cushioned by clothing, as if the words needed protecting from the relentless shifting of the coach.

Each squeeze of disappointment with his scant correspondence was followed, echoed, by reliving the gentle pressure of his hold. Subdued, stained with the bruise of bereavement for a mother so dear to him. But somehow still sure, the steady student. Soon to be a scholar.

I was not, for a long while, destined for such a path. The insistence of my father to pursue a worn track of commerce, linked to his own, was one of the few matters to truly evoke a vigorous distaste in me. Perhaps the uncommon, clouded haze that followed me in the months of Victor’s absence softened the harsh edges of my father’s pointed plans.

I’d admit, I had not questioned his blessing for my pursuit of languages at Victor’s very university. I proudly maintained this seed sown in my father’s mind: until I, the freckled, clumsy, preoccupied flower, had bloomed in the spring preceding my travels. His son— the bud that pushed past the soil of his predestined, paltry existence, defiant, with a penchant for lyrics and lace.

The journey clattered onward. I remained a tight knot of excitement, diluted with tinctures of dismay and concern at the four-month silence Victor had fallen into: without even one of his most vague notes, only to assure us of his continued occupation of university life. It seemed he had been swept along by a tide of scientific discovery; he entered realms I did not, and did not hold the passion to, comprehend. 

Of course, I had been pleased. I mused over the short slip of the word. _Pleased_. Reserved and tight-lipped, sibilant, served amongst formal dinners with Victor’s family and acquaintances. His father’s stilted pride. The lukewarm smile of his sister, as she veiled her upset at his disregard with a dignity I could never wish to rival. Ernest, and his pensive gaze upon clasped hands, and how even little William wilted into a lethargy, unlike his customary buoyancy, at the mention of an older brother now absent as he grew inches taller.

I strove to bridge the chasm of Victor’s failed communication. With every rotation of wearied wheels, I grew closer.

I also grew more impatient. By the time I was mere minutes from the promised streets, I could scarcely convey the flask to my lips, for my hand trembled so. A raw edge of excitement unseamed any previous attempt at my dear Victor’s composure; I succumbed to the boundless energy that came so naturally.

It was with such energy that I acted when the coach shuddered to a halt. I grasped my case with ardour, and welcomed the opening door to the cool, German morning: six-thirty, announced by the imposing church clock I had recently passed.

It was not the rush of fresh air that caused my pulse to thrill, nor the sudden reliance on legs having long grown numb, folded in preoccupation.

It was the sight of none other than the eyes that haunted my most tender musings and desperate ballads.

“My dear Frankenstein,” I exclaimed, springing from the narrow doorway in unbridled ecstasy. “How glad I am to see you! How fortunate that you should be here at the very moment of my alighting!”

The case I held lay forgotten against the paved ground, as I returned the embrace of those years ago, overcome.

Victor did not wriggle with his characteristic aversion for such outward affection. He clung to my coat, pressing close, with a sharp chemical scent to his person that I would only later recall.

It was at considerable length that I noticed how I lifted him in my hold. Such a discovery prickled me with alarm— as this act was unintentional, even in my enthusiasm. He hung some inches from the ground, so startlingly light that my joyful words faltered.

“My dearest. I am beyond thrilled to once more be graced by your presence.” 

Victor spoke at last: and it was the first utterance I had heard in his gentle tones for nearly three years, in which I had only imagined the flowing intonation and its eloquence.

It sounded strained. His throat seemed to shudder like a faltering mechanism, rattling each syllable until it left in an alloy of uncertainty.

He drew back, and downward, from my tight clasp. I inspected him with a mounting unsteadiness of spirit.

The sensitive eyes I had grown up losing myself within retained a spark— a spark that now appeared rather unnatural in its intensity. His stare was lined by deep, damning shadows unobscured by studious glasses, and framed with a ghoulish pallor that plagued his cheek, stone-grey.

My tongue tangled at once, in my desperation to voice the swell of concern pressing my lungs.

And Victor gave me a strange look. A look that spoke, in all its unnerving depth and frayed edges, to not exclaim.

He had always been reticent about his more personal matters of health, I reasoned. The confession of what he deemed as weakness was not one he ever wished to make— and evidently, neither would my own verbal ministrations be wise.

“I do hope you see the unparalleled opportunity of this city,” he began, as if to dispel my anxiety. “Such a wonderful land of learning. Though...how ever did you gain passage here?”

“I...”

I trailed into quiet. Victor stared, with a desperation that pushed my tone into one of fabricated ease. It also pushed us to begin a brisk walk, following what Victor assured me was the route to his accommodation.

My case bumped my knees in haste as I pursued his near-frantic speed.

"It is quite the miracle,” I said between breaths, “as you must recall the continued denial of such an education I had faced upon your departure: yet, it seems my father’s affection for me at length overcame his dislike of learning. He has permitted my commitment to this fine university."

"How did you leave my father, brothers and sister? Were they well?”

His voice trembled, then.

"Very well, and very happy. Only a little uneasy that they hear from you so seldom. I mean to lecture you a little upon their account myself.”

The words sounded harsher than I had envisioned them— grit in a raw wound of hurt that I did not realise could be so easily disturbed. Victor visibly stiffened, and his step faltered, if only for a moment. An extended pause settled between us for the remainder of the walk.

We appeared to have reached his apartment less than five minutes later, for he scrambled about his pockets for a key. Only then did I absorb how dishevelled his dress appeared: his jacket limp and muddied, breeches creased beyond repair and hair no longer the curls I fondly braided, but a tangle of lifeless, pale wire. His garments hung shapelessly, worlds away from the tailored state he had left us in.

“Victor,” I found myself breaking character at long last, unable to hide the horror steadily consuming me. “I...I did not yet remark on how very ill you look. So thin and pale...are you ailing?”

“Perhaps. I have been occupied for numerous months with arduous toil. B-but I confess, your presence will be the greatest medicine to me, I am certain. I sincerely hope that my employments have reached their conclusion, and I am at length free.”

Though concerning, it was not the stumble in his speech that stole away the last whisper of my breath. Nor the eclipse that passed across his gaunt features.

It was how his hand, now clutching my own, was hot and clammy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- This becomes more open story-wise a few chapters in: as our boi Henry never got his POV in the timeframe of Victor’s illness and recovery.
> 
> \- I don’t know how long this will be yet...or if I will finish :’D I will try!!!


	2. Threshold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- this feels a little in limbo: but I suppose they are too! 
> 
> (also it is a bit short, but the next chapter is lengthier again!)

We were sixteen. The grandeur of great hills and steep slopes were but minor undulations on our frequent rambles that punctuated such a glorious existence. In warmer months, the steady breeze fluttered, scattering the petals of blooms I would thread in my waistcoat buttonholes. Winter saw the winds bite at his complexion, leaving charming patches of colour, as he dared me to take the chilled steel of the ground at a sprint.

Of course, I ran, never able to resist such an activity– nor resist him. Laughter strained the muscles of my stomach as I swore mildly, fighting as to not lose my footing.

Each time I came close to a tumble, an unflinching hand would meet an arm or shoulder. Though even then I surpassed him in height and build, he was subtly strong for all of his bookish preferences. Many a time did he overtake me on our processions, calling triumphantly or whistling familiar music.

I was the better whistler, I had insisted.

In the cramped confines of the apartment complex, as we navigated the spiralling staircase, I found myself eager to replicate those long-ago hikes on this unsteady, creaking terrain.

That is my only explanation for why a snatch of song left between my teeth in a test of my old skill. The tentative notes curled in a ribbon, colouring the air with a dash of springtime saturation.

“Do you remember that tune? On our walks? These steps feel distinctly reminiscent of them.”

Victor turned from his ever-slowing lead: one that was no longer through an airy bout of energy, but necessity, given how narrow the dimly lit passage was. He regarded me with his sombre, lustrous look, and the transparency, the emptiness, of a stranger. Only the vaguest of nods was granted in response.

The hurt and nerves that coiled in my chest tightened— as he quite abruptly leaned against the washed wall, hand splayed, as if he wished to claw the floral pattern from the paper. He took to panting for breath, chest tight and audible.

“Victor?” I smoothed a palm against the jutting valley of his shoulder blade, fingers journeying to climb his shoulder's peak.

“I’m...quite alright. Give me a moment.”

I did, naturally. Said moment was one of agony, watching how he gasped, having once been so fighting fit.

A dozen deliberate breaths later saw us complete the ascent. My hand hovered near the small of his back, conscious that I may have needed to prop him up the remaining steps.

The key that had been surely lodging an impression in his palm, for he held it so tightly, skimmed the near a brass handle, unsteady.

At that moment, the door inched away of its own accord: giving beneath gentle pressure. Open.

Victor was a fastidious young man. I knew him well— certainly well enough to reason that he would never normally forget such a thing as sealing his rooms shut.

A scratch of upset teased my imagined wound, as I once more agonised over how this startled, strained stranger before me seemed bounds away from my treasured friend.

“Of course,” he muttered, as if his throat were lodged with gravel. “Of course. How foolish of me.”

“You...you left your apartment unlocked?”

“Please lower your voice, Henry,” Victor winced. He massaged his temples in a daze, as if I had shouted loudly enough to wake the dead. I was certain I had spoken only a note more audibly than usual.

Still, he seemed so ill that I figured he suffered with head pain, and thus complied, settling for a whisper in the grim draught of the hall. “My dear Frankenstein. This is awfully unlike you. I fear more greatly for your state of being than I did prior— if that is indeed possible.”

“Wait,” was his stilted imperative. He regarded me with airs to suggest I was a precious thing. “Stay here. Or down. Oh! Henry, you must go down again. Until I tell you so.”

I stared, as I stood, travel-ruffled and with a weighty case stubbornly pressed into my hand. “Sorry?”

“I apologise. Could you? You must. Is your luggage too heavy? Allow me to take it— though...I cannot risk...”

“I think you are a touch delirious, my friend.”

“Please,” Victor wrenched the imploring word from somewhere deep in his chest, and it shuddered with emotion, as if my descent down not a minute’s worth of steps was a matter of life and death. “I will return for you and invite you indoors if...please, Henry.”

I complied. I could hardly resist, lest him be moved to tears by a wooden walkway— which groaned with frustration as it once again met my footfalls.

It was a painful wait, as I hung like a stray beside the entrance to the building, tracing stones with my buckled shoe.

Mere minutes, which felt more like hours alone on that grey morning, passed away before I heard his voice once more.

“Henry?”

A genuine note of delight rung in the address. I hastened to meet him anew: only to find the knot of raw nerves darting back downwards himself, and tugging me tightly into his hold. He hummed contentedly against my shoulder, and a swell of heartless laughter struck discordance in his words. “You’re alright. You’re okay, are you not?”

“I am,” I lied presently, unsure of whether to indulge in his passion— for, unnerving as it was, I cherished the way in which he seemed so eager to share his embrace.

“You are,” he smiled as he eased away, seeming to sway between unrestrained joy and a placid, absent serenity. “And it’s…it is clear now. You are safe. I will protect you.”

I hardly thought him capable of climbing those dreaded stairs again; I humoured him in this fantasy. We reached his apartment, facing the second attempt to pass the entrance. My left hand stung with the extended support of my case, while my right clasped Victor’s arm from behind him.

I should have been brimming with exultation. Such feelings had cooled into a clot of anxiety and settled, sinking in my stomach. My blood stilled, cold as pooling ink, forgotten as Victor’s own, dripping over missives that never reached me.

Now, I had no choice but to mimic his step as he slipped inside the rooms, swift as a leveret. My sleeve rasped a warning against the wooden frame. I steeled my nerves.

Yet my heart still stumbled, a wanderer, as it climbed my ribs on a trail of tumult.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m having a lot of fun getting into writing again! <3 next chapter they will...actually be inside...wow...


	3. Man and Myth

I was always a boy of grand words and fancies. I marched with the righteous air of a knight, brandishing a branch as my sword; drifted as a lone spirit with a tragic robe of bedclothes; threw out a hand in a signal for adventure, a shawl of Elizabeth acting as a fine cape.

It was so welcome to pretend. Familiar, as I pulled in the same, fond audience of Victor and his siblings: a flock of fair sparrows, perched amongst the branches of trees we frequently scaled.

No player could replicate Victor in the harrowing minutes that followed our entry. It truly appeared as if a stranger wore a finely-formed mask of his dear face. A phantasm. He held me with hands that were too hot, laughed with a voice too unrestrained, seemed to teem with enthusiasm that knew no bounds. I endeavoured to calm the rattling of his person by whatever means I could.

“Victor? We should settle. I will brew us tea.”

For the first time, I drew my eyes from him to inspect the room. It had already overwhelmed me in sheer temperature; a window above his writing desk was wrenched open, with the rain of the fledgeling morning clearly having entered, as an array of documents lay limp with the damp. 

I shivered, and moved to close it once more— and a thin finger hooked around my raised ones.

“It is warm in here,” he said.

“It most certainly is not, dear Victor. My goodness, we will catch our death—”

“What?” He tensed, the patches of exertion he held about his cheekbones draining. “Nobody will die, Henry! I won’t let you. Don’t you believe me?”

“It’s a turn of phrase,” I pleaded, wretchedly, now trembling myself. I pressed a hand to his brow: only to be met with dry, hellish heat. “My God, Victor!”

He stirred beneath my palm, seeming to lean into the chilled skin that had been branded against my case, which lay abandoned, once more. “Henry?”

“No wonder you’re so overwrought. You are dreadfully feverish. Have you not a servant about? Fellow students?”

“Nobody must see,” he said, cryptic in his haze.

“They were dismissed?”

He gave a hum of assent. “Nobody is welcome.”

Despite all, my pulse fluttered as he moved to cradle my face between his clumsy fingertips. “Nobody but you.”

“How long have you been alone?”

“The buds were young.”

“Spring?” I was overtaken by a breathless horror that shook my caged heart, picturing my May wanderings, so blithe and carefree, having been granted wings to soar above the dismal track of a merchant's life.

Perhaps Victor had sprung wings of his own. A Daedalus and Icarus figure at once, who now grew limp in my arms, white as wax, the fragile crest of his own invention melting before me.

“You must rest,” I grew authoritative in my mounting anxiety, and moved to steer him towards what might have been his bedchamber.

It was then that his sickly affection stiffened into a wild bout of terror. He struggled in my arms, crying out. “Unhand me!”

“Victor, it is Henry. Listen to me, please, my dear. You recognise me, don’t you– your sentimental old companion?”

He did not, and he screamed as much. It was fortunate I could not see his face in that instant, for I was certain it would shatter my resolve— and my grip around his chest, as I fought to prevent some act of violence against this unfounded threat.

“Devil! Fiend! I will not let you take him!”

“There is nobody here but I,” my voice quivered beneath his frenzied shouts.

“Please! I...I implore you...”

The struggle then expired.

As did my friend: for he crumpled against me, senseless, slick with sweat, scorched.

~~~

Grand words of tragedy or my prized sonnets were little aid to my next endeavours. The room remained silent as an empty chapel, as if the one, sorry sinner had paid dearly for his wrongdoings, and was lowered somewhere unreachable.

Indeed, Victor did sink. 

On occasions, young William favoured a similar trick, which amused us to no end. He would gamely fence with myself or his sister— once even purloining a curtain rod, the funny beggar— before falling flat in what we rightly assumed was a feigned act of defeat.

Then, he would try, and fail, to still his small chest, and resist the urge to twitch at Elizabeth’s fingers as she tickled his shoulder. Ernest’s bargain of a sweet to chew rarely inspired movement. Even my own sigh, as I mimicked overwhelming emotion at my fallen foe, did little. 

It was only when we retreated, with a mock shudder of agony and declarations that the game was surely over, that he would spring from the grass like an unruly sapling, and call after us.

“I was not really dead. I was only playing. Oh, I fooled you!”

We let him think such things, and resumed in an act of all-consuming relief— as his curled head had risen once more, and all was well in his world.

I wished Victor had been teasing me. I almost fancied, as I scooped his deadweight from the floorboards, that he would open one conspiratorial eye, as if to check whether I had fallen for this unwelcome joke.

No such fortune struck me. Instead, I lay Victor upon his bed: having inspected the chamber for evidence of this surely extended illness. What I was met with greatly shocked and unnerved me; stacks of scientific volumes and papers lined the room's perimeter, leaving no sight of his lower walls. The surface of his bedside table was arranged with a host of flasks and beakers of varying sizes, catching the meagre shafts of morning light. A bizarre art installation of pursuit and passion.

His bed was mercifully empty— though the sheets in a tangle, and one pillow strewn upon the floor. I righted such things, nudging his lifeless form into a position to almost delude myself that he was in a mere, pleasant doze.

It did not succeed. I chewed my knuckle agitatedly as he shifted in a fitful torpor, seeming to confuse himself on whether to struggle or settle, grasping a knot of blanket in a grazed fist.

I shook, as acid remnants of adrenaline shot towards my extremities, and pondered this calamity.

A wobbling glass of water steadied my nerves enough to proceed. I took to cooling a washcloth from my own luggage, until sufficiently weighted, and arranging it against his brow.

In my state, I soon removed it again. He surely needed a more suitable dress for illness; I once more turned to my folded mass of clothing, feeling a creeping sense of reluctance to inspect his own wardrobe. It bothered me, as we had readily swapped shirts or coats as boys— but yet again, I duelled with the grating whisper that I now occupied a stranger’s lodging, and thus must conduct myself as such.

It was its own horror, shedding him of his shirt, which clung horribly. I drew back at his depleted state: his pulse jumping against a prominent cage of ribs, rabbit-quick.

I could picture us so sorely— half our age, in similar garments and propped on elbows, as we relayed our plans for the next game we were to embark upon, when the sun came out of hiding.

He was rather like a child once again, swallowed in my nightdress, hung over frail branches of bone. I keenly felt as one too, with this overwhelming wash of responsibility, wishing to cling to my mother’s skirts and hide away within the fabric folds.

Instead, I palmed his cheek. It could have fried the breakfast I had planned for us to take a short while ago, as I had rattled nearer on my travels.

“There, now,” I said in soothing tones, upon detecting movement in his face. “You gave me quite a fright, dear Victor.”

He sighed into further unconsciousness. 

I entertained the possibility, for a moment, that he was already being restored to his senses. He would soon lever himself against the headboard, and peer blearily, without the reinforcement of spectacles that now rested on a slice of remaining cabinet.

“How very unlike me,” he’d then say, with the sheepish smile that excuses oneself of a misstep.

Instead, a fearful tempo clicked a rhythm in the quiet, as I uncovered my pocket watch. For fruitless minutes, I followed the slender hands with watering eyes.

When the mechanism told me that seven-twenty turned in sequence, I rose. It seemed absurd that not yet an hour had passed away from my alighting. I fidgeted with as much nervous energy as Victor had shown, and decided to prepare breakfast, though my stomach was in knots, and he did not show signs of animation.

Before I dared leave him alone, I pressed his senseless hand, in the hope that he may hear me despite everything. “I shan’t be long, my dear."

I moved with the unnatural proficiency of one of Victor’s marvelled pieces of apparatus, and searched his cupboards with growing dismay. They yawned open, drab and dusty: revealing bread so stale that it knocked against the shelf as I retrieved it, and a lone jar of jam.

I knew not how to craft something appetising. It grew clear that I would need to make a trip to better stock these shelves— but until Victor became more aware, I did not wish to vacate his apartment.

Thus, I strove to make the best of the matter. I began assembling a patchwork of ingredients; further investigation into this cramped kitchen produced a salvageable slab of fruitcake, of which I sampled, and cut the remainder for Victor’s pitiful plate.

It did not seem surprising that he had grown so dreadfully underweight. I sighed deeply, and shook some gingerbread biscuits from my box I kept in my luggage.

A sad, strange meal for two. If I were not so wretched, I would have laughed at the tough shreds of bread spread with liberal strawberry jam; the crumbling cake that seemed to cave in upon itself; the absurd embellishments of biscuits that miserably patterned the platter.

In the end, I could hardly say it mattered. Victor only slept on, and in the instances his eyes grew visible beneath fluttering lashes, he wrenched from me fearfully, and curled further into his bedclothes.

I plied him with a piece of spiced bark and a particularly jam-coated slice of stale board. He did not wake or attempt to chew. He tangled in his covers, damp with sweat, breath punctuated by stuttering panic as he raved.

I ate, between spells of soothing his agony and reapplying the compress. The food turned to ash in my mouth, the powder of nerves. Redolent of fiery disaster. I swallowed what seemed like shards of his beakers, or a dangerous substance which he was bound to have experimented with, in his absence.

My creation had failed its purpose, and remained lifeless, in crumbs of disturbed matter and decaying goods. 

I had never been one for experiments.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the creation scene but it’s just Henry and stale food au :’)


	4. Language Barrier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Sorry for the long silence...this is. Rather lengthy as a result haha :O

I was rarely at a true loss for words.

My own, certainly so: yet, never was I without the trusted tongues of those elevated in their works of literature and lyrical genius. Such a reliance on parcelled gifts of greatness was arguably what granted me the fortitude to withstand the most potent of troubles.

Dear Elizabeth, inconsolable as she was in the shadow of Caroline’s passing, clung to my words. As she did my braid— fragile fingers working distractedly to fashion a familiar style.

And as she worked, she wept. I keenly felt the need to wrap her in embrace. Even as I did, the swell of unhappiness often would not subside. That is when I would revert to the language of gentle rapture, reciting promises of comfort from the souls of others, if I were unable to form them myself.

This act became habitual. I would, as I dug into tough soils, relay observations of sublimity, hoping to ease the tension in Ernest’s wiry arms. His shovel faltered, and his hands hesitated in the deployment of various bulbs and seeds, scratched with brambles, trembling. He was not unduly small— and yet, he shrunk beneath my arms as I clasped him close, withering.

Victor did not grow silent. Rather, he spoke frequently, at length, of macabre matters. He paced, drifting between rooms, his voice carried through carved walkways and stately furniture. He often cradled William, but a babe in arms then, bouncing him gently as he grizzled for a softer carry.

“Come here, petal.” I coaxed the bundle into my own hold frequently.

“It all decays,” Victor would say, in his sober, sombre way. “Petals. Ernest’s blooms. My, even one’s hair— the sort Elizabeth so fondly weaves.”

I floundered. My voice at once became a stranger’s, and threaded wisdom into these musings of such grim and ghastly matters.

Sometimes, Victor listened, rapt.

Other times, he would spit like a tame cat turned savage, prickling with derision at these writers and their sentimental outlook on what he deemed so crisp and clinical.

On occasion, he wept, with the messy abandon of William's infant mourning. They were the most harrowing instances of all, and the most uncommon.

In my current, uncertain state— awaiting my leave to better fortify myself as a nurse— I heard him cry anew. It pained me to know there was little I could do; any attempts to read a passage from one of my poetry books were thwarted by his unconsciousness.

I soon reached the decision to take stock of the apartment. Another clasp of inert fingers saw me creep from the bedchamber, and observe the cluttered, cramped, chilled rooms. I again moved to seal away the autumnal bite, and no longer faced resistance.

The ventilation may have been wise: what with the stinging, solvent air of chemicals watering my eyes. Nonetheless, it was disagreeable, given the way the damp seeped into my bones, and was bound to weaken Victor’s chest. A fire would see the cold subside, and rival the unfamiliar scent of experiments, I was certain.

Once young flames rasped the grate, I rose from kneeling in my efforts to start this feeble fire— and stumbled as I met a perilous tower of books. Equal parts of curiosity and bemusement saw me slide the uppermost text from the pile.

It bore no title embossed on the delicate spine, nor an identifiable author upon lifting the cover. The first page merely read, _'Findings'_.

But I could have recognised the hand anywhere: the slope as each letter listed a little to the right; the burning impatience which left both vowels bearing crowns far from their heads.

And at length, I set the works aside. My hand strayed to my braid. I felt an intruder in Victor’s rooms, and now, one in his mind.

It did not stop me from resolving to scan the pages, later. Much later. It surely would do no harm, to take a look into what on earth may have shaken my dear friend so?

That is what I convinced myself, loosening my fingers from what was quickly becoming a frayed, dark rope against my shoulder. 

I was overtaken by a clench of self-consciousness, catching my own eyes in a clouded looking glass that hung listlessly above the mantelpiece. 

I was quite a mess. A troubled flush clung beneath tawny skin; hair spiralled from its style in a hyperbole of frenzy and my cravat lay unevenly, against a creased chest of pale overcoat.

The reflection grimaced, failing to right his collar and open the curtain of anxiety before his eyes. He shivered when he sensed the slightest of movements behind him, a whisper of life, that passed as quickly as it arrived, as a snuffed flame would under firm fingers.

~~~

My arms once more were laden— though now with items more agreeable, what with the empty pit of loneliness in my stomach, and pressingly, the starveling framework of my friend, tucked under a shroud-like sheet.

I shook such a morbid image from my mind, and peppered it with lighter thoughts. Pepper indeed arose— the kind I would introduce to his palate, with the homely recollection that it may ease his symptoms. I pondered the broth we would take, in my fragile hope that he would grow alert enough to eat.

The though sustained me on the walk back to the apartment, as drizzle cooled my hands clumsy and reflected the watery light of midday in puddles of grey steel.

I returned with a perfunctory knock on hardwood, brandishing the key I now attached to my own person. It was an immense relief to find the parlour warmed through, and I stoked the fire with a flourish once the armfuls of supplies were settled in storage.

My next duty was to check on my friend— unsure of whether it would be kinder to find him sleeping on, or roused as to speak to me.

The latter seemed to have been true: for when I entered his chamber, he regarded me with owlish eyes. His thin hands folded thoughtfully atop the coverlet.

“Victor?” I let a leap of hope spring from my lungs. “How...how are you feeling?”

He blinked placidly. “Hm?”

I knew at once he was disorientated, even if now in the other extreme of behaviour. He never responded with such a sound alone. He deemed it impolite; I deemed him stuffy with a huff of laughter.

His self-righteousness would have been most comforting to hear.

“Good morning,” I said, even, evaluative. “Though, I do rightly believe it is in fact past twelve.”

“Mm.”

“I’ve just returned from my little jaunt down the streets, to acquire provender.” I smiled, in the hopes a dash of light humour may illuminate the gloomy cast to his face. “Your shelves were terribly bare, Victor.”

He offered a productive cough as insight into these affairs.

“Breakfast was rather a disaster. We’re going to try again with lunch. Does chicken broth sound appealing?”

At that, he merely tipped his ragged head inquisitively, a hand giving a valiant effort in nursing his brow.

“Lovely,” I rebounded with a manufactured buoyancy, sewing my lips into ready understanding, as if his monotone flowed elegantly as birdsong. “I will not be long.”

Indeed, I was not. I heated the broth accordingly and sliced a considerably softer loaf. I nibbled a corner of crust in my own piece, and was overtaken by thoughts of boyhood, of fresh-baked bread and sly hands, craving a taste.

Victor remained in this hollow peace. The film of frost that covered winter glass, or the quivering readiness of undisturbed water, as life hung beneath the surface. I took cares to make each movement slow and deliberate, and soon settled in a wooden chair beside his sickbed, balancing the steaming bowl in my lap.

“Hello,” Victor said, and I could not help but smile, genuinely, at his earnest intonation.

“Hello,” I countered, mirrored. “Are you hungry?”

He hummed ambiguously, and narrowed his gaze, in scrutiny, it would seem. “Who are you?”

My heart gave a groan. “Oh—I am your childhood companion, Henry, my dear Victor. You’ve been away for over two years now, and I arrived earlier today.”

“Henry,” he tested the name, as if a strange sweet to sample. “I like it. Are you staying?’

“Of course I am.”

“I must show you around,” he said, with a grandiose air, as if he were an esteemed gentleman, rather than a colt whose clumsy legs remained pinned by bedclothes.

“At a later date,” I reasoned, gently involved in his fantasy. “You can show me everything in the rooms once you begin your recovery.”

I feared such recovery would be a longer process than I had initially guessed, what with his glassy look and addled mind.

“Everything?” He tried to mimic my tone.

“It would help me greatly. Now. Enough conversation, Victor. I’ve some hot broth here that will rapidly lose its goodness if it grows any cooler.”

It was a twist of the truth, like weaving a braid or wringing a cloth. A well-intentioned, brisk movement of care.

He sat in receptive silence, and eyed me with interest, as if I were a particularly enthralling experiment. It succeeded in bringing a slow heat to my face, on which I blamed the meal before us— though it was merely comfortably warm, now.

I stirred, unnecessarily, suddenly a touch flustered.

“I can eat that,” Victor quirked his lip in the distinct manner of his brothers— how William would react to a reprimand, or Ernest to a slight.

“Of course,” I said pleasantly, though I kept a firm grip on the spoon, and nudged from his appealing hand. “However, you’re extremely weak, Victor. I fear you may spill.”

He fell into a reproachful quiet, but allowed me to guide him through some mouthfuls. I felt the sting of memory, sharp and splintering, recalling his own mother and sister, in this similar state. I let them lap my mind like the returning tide, but not crash over the barricades, for a steady hand was needed.

Victor seemed to tire quickly. He was overtaken by the more fraught pole of illness, on this troubling axis. His hands screwed tighter from their relaxed position, and he stared with more desperation.

I swiftly replaced his compress, cold once more.

This whisper of his mannerisms I had been granted was welcome. I reminded myself that, though he thought me a stranger in his disarray, there were scatterings of sense. He saw his world in gasps of understanding.

It was enough for now. I had no choice but to think so, as I washed the crockery with purposeful swipes. Each brush of water became calming as I pictured the same, cooling mercy over Victor’s temples.

~~~

I succeeded, in the following hours, at being both productive and unproductive.

Productive in the sense that Victor’s cobwebbed ceilings and grey surfaces were swept clean. I took my time fastening back the tattered curtains, and at last, allowing the full panel of daylight to lash the walls and flooring. My breeches grew grey and softened with dust, but I supposed this was not a pressing issue, as they were already tired with travel.

I shed my overcoat, and tightened my braid with purpose. This saw me through the movement of many stacks of books, which I piled neatly about the corners of Victor’s rooms.

Despite this physical effort, however, I remained fruitless in my bid to organise my mind. It fluttered like its own library, thoughts paper birds, brushing the edges of sense. It was with notable effort I contained my curiosity: balancing the rationality that Victor was quite unable to voice coherent explanations to his, or his apartment's, dire condition.

When my pocket watch reached six in the evening, it startled me, with the time I had deemed so ponderous now slipping through my fingers like the more unruly documents I had filed. 

The work was punctuated with resting an investigative hand over Victor’s face— and he had slept deeply, with echoes of delirium muffled by heavy exhaustion.

I stepped back in his parlour, inspecting my progress.

His flooring was considerably clearer: polished to the best of my ability. The arrangement of furniture lodged in a maze shone slightly, having been cleaned with a surprisingly strong hand, despite my dreamy disposition. Assortments of apparatus now lined diligently upon his higher cabinets; scattered glasses with slips of water caught little light in cavernous cupboards— and even the occasional scrawled note was pressed flat in the cover of a book on alchemical matters.

I was considerably weary. The slow ache of my confinement to a coach now overtook me with heightened force, squeezing the muscles of legs and shoulders, as if I had been on a particularly lengthy walk with my companion.

It sounded most agreeable to simply crawl into bed.

The vision was fleeting, as I knew I had to attempt to coax more water and nourishment into Victor: but enough to prompt me into vague unease. His guest-room was uninhabitable, after all, now housing many of the larger volumes and jars.

Taking an armchair was not an enthralling thought— though of course, it softened when considering the alternative of leaving Victor alone. The stiff limbs and cricked neck would be worth the proximity to his sickbed.

Such extremes proved unnecessary.

I visited Victor with a pot of fresh tea and the last of my gingerbread. We ate companionably. I was tired out with the exertion of making his rooms bearable to inhabit, but he was the one who was limp with perspiration, hair and eyelids pendulous.

Though the hour only crawled towards seven-thirty upon two full cups of drink, I considered spending an early evening’s rest, manoeuvring an armchair to retire in Victor’s own room.

I told him of this. He gained a troubled crease between his brows, and shifted nearer to the right side of his bed.

“Are you alright?” I remained blank.

The faintest ghost of a smile graced his lips, if only for a moment. “You are welcome to share.”

I masked my bashfulness with a cough.

It should not have seemed so unnatural, I thought. Victor and I often crept into the same bed as children, telling tales of great adventure and unthinkable terrors that we were certain lurked beneath us.

We were no longer children— though again, I thought ourselves as such when I replied. “I do not wish to disturb your rest.”

“You shan’t.” He sounded rather young, almost confessional. “I...I am comforted by your presence.”

I regarded him at length, wordless and warm. I nodded.

The sun still fought to prevail against dun-white clouds, as I too fought to climb into my nightclothes. A strange clumsiness overtook me: and I spent some time straightening my stockings and smoothing pale sleeves over my prickling arms.

Victor sunk back into his pillows, exhaling with deliberate focus, as if to steel his nerves.

I hesitated. “Are you certain you don’t mind? I cannot endanger your sleep, you know.”

“You cannot stray far if you want to be safe,” he mumbled, indistinct. “Sure he is waiting. I am sure.”

“Who?”

He only shrunk, then, as if in revulsion, regarding some perceived threat. I sighed softly, and perched on the mattress, catching hold of his hands.

His fingers were strangely scratched and sore, knuckles like tombstones.

“Your fever is speaking for you, my dear. I feel you have been working much too obsessively, and now pay a steep price. Have none of your fellow creatures sought intervention?”

“They mustn’t know of this.”

He turned, quickly, curling small, a hollow wall between us. I could see I wasn’t to get far, questioning him in such a state as he was currently.

That is what drove me to ease beneath the bedclothes: fortunate enough to find one blanket unclaimed amongst an array of coverings. I instinctively settled a palm over his back, and failed to still a shiver at the sharp, spinal impressions I felt.

“I wish I could help you properly,” I said, swallowing emotion. “You feel so far away.”

“Henry,” his voice wavered. “I...I think I’ve done something terrible.”

I tightened into a coil of horror, barely able to maintain the rhythm of stroking. “Whatever it is, I’m sure we can solve it, together.”

“I...”

I could not describe just what shifted in his tone, then. Something seemed to pass over, an eclipse, a cloud, a shroud.

“I’ve missed a great number of lectures,” he said, simply, slowly, almost cautious. “Yes. That is it.”

It clearly was not, but I agonised, unable to push further. “Oh, Lord, Victor. That is not important, not now. I care infinitely more about you than about your education— proud as I am, of course.”

He turned to face me anew, and his eyes were full. “I’ve missed you.”

He cried rarely. 

I felt my own lungs catch, and pulled him into an embrace, undeterred by his dampened skin and unnatural warmth.

“I’ve missed you too, dove.”

The fact he merely accepted my affectionate address reminded me of how absent he was.

“Will you leave?”

“No,” I said, in a stir of breath, as if I had been the one to board the coach on that bright, cold morning years ago. “I promise.”

He gave a small sound, quite like a sob. “You are so good to me...Henry?”

“That’s right. You remember, don’t you?”

He almost smiled, almost nodded.

I had used the remainder of my own words to comfort him. Instead, I drew him closer, and spoke the language of another into his hair, as he rested his head upon my chest.

The poetry strung its silken cord, and soon, both of us grew still.

_“‘If our two loves be one, or, thou and I/_  
_Love so alike, that none do slacken, none can die.’”_

His pulse did not slow to match mine as he drifted.

I listened between the frantic beats, and counted each one, grateful, as I knew he was yet alive, when he otherwise seemed so lost.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- the poem quoted at the end is The Good-Morrow by John Donne :)
> 
> \- I also snuck in a reference to a poem by Seamus Heaney...somewhere...


End file.
